


When Two Objects Collide

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - School, Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Childhood Friends, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Romantic Friendship, references to corporal punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for 3XKMariana who asked: "Could you write a story about James and Sebastian meeting each other for the first time?"</p>
<p>This is not my main headcanon about how they met but perhaps this is how they met in an alternate universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Two Objects Collide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3XKMariana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3XKMariana/gifts).



    The older boy watches over the top of his book, remaining very still and silent and so very sombre. He might not seem out of place at a funeral with that stillness about him and the darkness of his suit. On other boys the dark suits seem brighter somehow; imbued with life still, but he wears his like an undertaker. Even his auburn hair, which might have provided a welcome splash of colour, seems muted due to the application of oil to slick it neatly down.

     “What the hell are you starin’ at?” the younger boy spits at him when he catches the elder boy watching.

     The older boy’s mouth quirks into the barest trace of a smile. “You, of course.” James Moriarty – the middle one of three brothers to bear that name – stands up and takes a step towards the younger boy, who glares up at him with blazing blue eyes as his fists unwittingly clench. All that rage, all that energy, Moriarty thinks. How _magnificent_. “Sebastian Moran, I believe.” He holds out a thin, soft hand to the other boy.

     Moran’s clenched fists drop to his sides and he stares at Moriarty’s proffered hand as if he is not sure what he is meant to do with it. Perhaps he does not, not when – so Moriarty has noted – all the other boys have treated him only with contempt and disdain.

     Moran is too rough for this place; too rebellious. Oh the other boys admire spirit and fire; they may cheer on those who risk their necks climbing trees or draw down the wrath of the grown ups by pinching apples from the nearby orchard or answering back the teachers with smart remarks, but only when it suits them. Moran, with his coarse language and solitary nature, does not suit them. There is too much of the feral animal about him; too much suspicion in him, and they know damned well too that he’d rather be anywhere than here; that he’d rather be carousing with street Arabs even than hanging about with entitled boys, all of them togged up like damned penguins. Also, his suit does not fit him either. It may be tailored for him but everything about him says that he hates this uniform; he feels constrained by it; he wishes to tear it off and hurl it into the dirt and stamp on it. It is not a matter of how it fits but how he wears it – some sense that is more than merely physical, though his clothes are invariably also marked with mud or dust or some manner of other substance because of his reckless ways, whether he has been climbing up trees or over walls or into other obscure corners of the school grounds, seemingly not caring about getting a thrashing for ruining yet another set of clothes.  

     He stands stiffly now, still eyeing Moriarty’s hand warily, seemingly intending to decline to shake it, but Moriarty, smiling slightly, pointedly leaves his hand there hovering between them, until Moran’s shoulders slump a little under the older boy’s unwavering stare. He shakes Moriarty’s hand, his grip proving to be pleasingly firm, his fingers somewhat calloused.

     “James Moriarty,” Moriarty informs him, which rings a vague bell in Moran’s memory, though he is not sure how. This serious, seemingly strait-laced youth is hardly the type to have been dragged up in front of the rest of the school to be disciplined. Perhaps then it was from something else, some prize-giving or some such event. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

     Moran snorts disdainfully as he shoves his hands with their chewed fingernails into his pockets. “Why?”  He shifts position slightly and winces a little.

  _That will be from his latest caning,_ Moriarty thinks.

     “What is so _pleasing_ about meeting me?” Moran sneers, tilting his chin up a little. “’aven’t you ‘eard I’m a terrible influence on anyone I come into contact with? I ain’t fit to be around no one.”

     Moriarty manages – just – to keep from flinching at this mauling of the English language and proper grammar. It sounds so incongruous coming from the mouth of the son of a man such as Sir Augustus Moran though, but then no doubt Sebastian is well aware of this; this may be precisely his reason for speaking so. “I have heard much about you.” Indeed Moriarty has heard many things about this younger boy from sources both inside and outside of the school, some of which certainly began to make him take notice of the somewhat gangly, freckled lad with his fierce blue eyes and his ash-blond hair customarily tousled every which way. This is significant, for Moriarty rarely troubles to notice anyone; most human beings are considered to be far, far below him, but after witnessing Moran taking a caning a few weeks ago, all the while burning with fury and resentment and struggling bravely not to cry out, he made it his business to know more about this boy.

     “So, what, you wanted to come look at me first hand?” Still there is contempt in Moran’s tone – a defence mechanism clearly designed to keep people at a distance; to push them away. “Look at me like I’m some bloody exhibit in a freak show, huh?”

     “I wished to meet you because you, Sebastian Moran, intrigue me,” Moriarty tells him, his own blue-grey eyes fixed still upon Moran’s. There is something about that look that is somehow mesmeric; that reels the object of that gaze in and leaves them helpless to turn away. Even Moran, spirited and mistrustful as he may be, cannot quite draw his gaze away from the older boy’s yet, but it is Moriarty’s words however that perhaps most capture his attention. “All these other boys – the spoilt _spawn_ of men with more money than sense, most of them; empty-headed dandies who care more for their appearance than for learning; vapid parrots who mindlessly repeat back whatever is forced into their dim little brains… they bore me, Sebastian, but you…” A spark seems to infuse Moriarty’s pale eyes, lighting them up momentarily. “You _fascinate_ me.”

     Moran is still looking back at him somewhat like a mouse staring up at the snake which is about to devour it entire, but then a grin lifts the corner of his mouth before he throws back his head and barks out a laugh. “Do I now?” he says.

     Moriarty, smiling, replies, “You do.”

     “Should I be impressed then by that? That I _fascinate_ you so?” Moran is still grinning as he asks this. It might be feigned amusement but the glitter in his eyes suggest it is very real, and that something too about this softly-spoken, queer, very-nearly-monochrome boy named Moriarty has intrigued him also.

     “That is entirely up to you.” Moriarty takes a step closer to Moran, smelling the faint whiff of highly illicit cigarette smoke upon his clothes. “Here.” Suddenly he has produced, like magic, a silver hip flask from some unseen place upon his person (Moran wonders precisely where; the boy is so thin you wouldn’t think he could conceal anything) and holds it up to Moran.

     “You, drinking?” Moran laughs again. “You don’t seem the type.” He takes the flask and puts it to his lips, taking a deep swig. Whisky, he notes; not bad stuff either.

     “What type do I seem?” Moriarty enquires softly.

     “You know… the what d’ya call it, the ascetic type. Like you don’t indulge in anything.”

     “Oh I indulge myself, now and again,” Moriarty assures him and fixes Moran with a stare that positively crackles with tension.

     Moran slowly and noisily gulps another mouthful of whisky. He is not precisely sure what this is that is passing between them – Moran may be young but he is an extremely precocious youth and certainly no naïve little boy when it comes to sexual matters. He has plenty of experience with girls and with other boys. This look, coupled with the older boy’s proximity to him, has something about it that seems to be precariously close to sexual attraction; sexual yearning. It is undeniably _sensual_ in its intensity and it causes a faint but familiar prickling in Moran’s lower body, yet… it is not sexual, he thinks, at least not on Moriarty’s part.

     “This, for instance.” Moriarty closes his fingers around the flask, quite deliberately placing his fingers over Moran’s, all the while still meeting the younger boy’s gaze. “I indulged myself with this; now how do you think I came by it?”

      Moran shrugs. “Filched it?” he suggests, beginning to suspect that this seemingly harmless, bookish fellow may be capable of far more than anyone has ever considered, and potentially far more dangerous than anyone could ever imagine.

     “ _Precisely!_ ” Excitement flares in Moriarty’s eyes again and then he lowers his voice, speaking in a soft but still meticulous manner. “Precisely, my dear Moran,” he murmurs, and his face is so close to Moran’s now.

      Moran wonders what it would be like to close that small gap and press his lips to the other boy’s, then wonders why he is wondering this. While he is still musing upon this enigma, Moriarty gently takes the flask from him and drinks a mouthful of whisky himself.

     “So you’re a thief then?” Moran remarks idly, leaning back against the wall and watching Moriarty’s throat as he swallows.

     “When it suits me.”

      _It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for_ , Moran thinks. “You ain’t ashamed of that?” he asks.

     “Are _you_ ashamed of your own pilfering? Or your cheating your classmates out of money in your card games?” Moriarty regards him with a slightly raised eyebrow.

     Moran pulls a wry face. “What, them snot-nosed toffs? Not one of ‘em gives a tinker’s curse about me so why should I feel bad about taking a bit of the money that their rich papas toss at ‘em?”

     “Would you cheat me?” Moriarty enquires with a sly grin, and Moran laughs.

     “You’d ‘ave to play cards with me to find that out.”

     “Is that an invitation?”

      Moran matches Moriarty’s grin with one of his own. “Maybe.” He gives Moriarty an oddly coy sideways glance, one which perhaps though shows a confidence he does not entirely feel. He is not sure whether he wants to extend an invitation to play card games and drink more stolen alcohol and smoke forbidden cigarettes with this boy or whether he wants to take him to bed. Usually things are far more clear-cut and far simpler to understand but this… this is different; _Moriarty_ is different. Yes he’s an odd one, maybe something of a cold fish, but still… deeply intriguing. “Nah,” Moran says at last. “Don’t reckon I could cheat you; reckon you’re too clever for that.”

     “You may be correct.” Moriarty quietly spirits away the whisky flask, again with Moran being unable to tell precisely where it vanishes to. “I am afraid anyway that card games do not interest me much, even when played for high stakes. I am more of a chess man. Do you play chess?”

     Moran shrugs. “Played it; can’t say I cared for it too much.”

     Moriarty does not seem disappointed by this response; if anything he seems to have expected it. “Well then,” he says, “we may have to find something else we can do together instead.” He looks up towards the darkening sky. “Do you ever look at the stars, Sebastian?” he asks. “I mean, truly look?”

     Moran follows the direction of Moriarty’s gaze, up towards a particularly bright star. “No, _James_ ,” he replies pointedly. “Can’t say I really concern myself with ‘em.”

     Moriarty, still looking up at the stars, smiles at this use of his first name, pleased by it. “You really should, Sebastian; astronomy is really a rather fascinating subject.”

     Moran looks down at the ground. “Just balls of gas, ain’t they? I see enough gasbags around this place without wanting to look for more things full of gas.”

     Moriarty chuckles and finally lowers his gaze to meet the younger boy’s again. “Still, if you were interested,” he says, “perhaps one night we might venture out together to look at the stars.”

    Moran stares at him a moment, trying to understand the meaning here, but the elder boy is so inscrutable. “By venture out…?”

     “I mean sneak out while we are supposed to be quietly tucked up in our respective beds, yes. I feel that that portion of it would appeal to you, if not the remainder of it. Evidently you get a positive _thrill_ out of breaking the rules.”

     Moran, looking down at the ground in front of his scuffed shoes, thinks of his still-smarting backside but grins again. “Aye, I s’pose I do.”

     “Well then, Sebastian.” Moriarty eyes Moran once more. “Another night, perhaps tomorrow, will you come and break the rules with me?”

     Moran glances up at him and grins again, more broadly now. “Yes, James,” he says. “I will.”

 


End file.
